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In spite of his unfair banishment from the upper levels, Syringeon’s work had only doubled in recent months. Though the lab staff’s opinion of him had soured considerably, they were taking sheepish elevator rides to the lower levels almost weekly to get his perspective on some givanium procedure or edge case they hadn’t been able to fully puzzle out on their own. It provided no shortage of smug vindication to the surgeon, that they were still so desperate for his expertise, but by this point he was far more partial to spending his precious time on more stimulating endeavors of his own.
It wouldn’t be so bad, if he was just dealing with the humans. The paltry citizens of the housing sector — excuse him, the kingdom — also required his increasingly divided attention. Without the resources and specialized containment procedures offered by the upper floors, the lab’s failed cases often needed exams, haphazard treatments, and rarely operations. It was hard to work with what he had, but Syringeon approached these cases with a steadfast spite: if the lab was expecting their failures to just dry out and die on their own, the surgeon was happy to disappoint them.
Of course, several of these cases were more than just vehicles for Syringeon’s bitter, quiet opposition. The Queen, for example, was one of his oldest and closest acquaintances. The Sheriff, though pigheaded at times, was strong and resourceful…
…And, of course, there was the massive, irritating leech presently taking up Syringeon’s operating table.
“Dadadoo, I just disinfected that surface,” the surgeon griped with a frown. “You know I’ve got no qualms about pushing you off the damn thing.”
“But doctor, I’m in terrible need of a checkup,” Sir Dadadoo insisted, his deep cadence maintaining its usual inscrutable tone; inscrutable to most, anyway. “What a heartless surgeon you must be, to turn away an ailing patient.”
“Mhmm.” Syringeon looked over the leech’s large, slimy form: lying on his stomach with his head lackadaisically propped on one elbow. “And just how are you ailing, might I ask?”
Dadadoo shifted his body on the table, getting his tail under him so he could sit up. “You are the doctor, not me. Surely you’ll know much better than I, if you take a closer look.”
Syringeon narrowed his eyes; it wasn’t hard to see where Dadadoo was not-so-subtly leading him.
“This wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with the fact that we’ve not seen each other for a few days, would it?” he asked, pulling out his stethoscope.
“You can understand the stress one might experience, when such a fine doctor seems bent on burning himself out,” Dadadoo implored, smirking as Syringeon pressed the end of the implement to his chest.
“I don’t work every moment of the day, you know,” Syringeon huffed. Normal pulse for a givanium construct, of course. Maybe a little high. “I take walks. Sit around and think about what I’ve done.”
“Mm, yes, and all on your own.” Dadadoo leaned back onto his hands quizzically. “You fancy yourself a very solitary man, doctor.”
Syringeon scoffed, sticking a thermometer under the leech’s arm. “When have you known me not to be?” Most givanium beings ran colder than the average human, but Dadadoo ran especially cold; now, though, not to Syringeon’s surprise at all, the thermometer had a significantly more tepid reading than usual.
“I think it is to your detriment,” Dadadoo continued, unfettered. “You get so distant and unfocused, when you’ve shut yourself up for too long. You like to think you’re too superior to need the simpler things in life…and in doing so, you become more susceptible to them.”
Casually, Dadadoo loosened his tie, then undid the first couple of buttons on his shirt. In spite of the many, many times Syringeon had witnessed the leech in greater states of undress to little effect, his synthetic heart was suddenly on the road to unwarranted palpitations. “And just what do you think you’re doing?”
“You need to check those…neck lumps, right?” prompted Dadadoo with a quizzical tilt of his head. “Ensure they aren’t swollen.”
“Lymph nodes,” Syringeon tersely corrected. Most complex givanium bodies had a synthetic approximation of those, to filter any nascent impurities in their systems.
Dadadoo gave a short bark of a chuckle. “You’re doing little to prove me wrong, doctor.”
He leaned in close to Syringeon, and any words the surgeon had been preparing to snap back with dissolved to nothing in his mind.
“I can see the heat rising on your pretty face,” the leech purred with a smirk.
Syringeon pressed his lips together. Dadadoo’s voice, in such close proximity, resonated to his core, speaking to the many urges Syringeon tried very hard to force down there. “For all you know…I’m the ugliest case they ever tossed down here,” he managed to retort, though it was hard to miss the flustered waver in his voice.
“Such a weak rebuttal,” the leech hummed, his thumb finding Syringeon’s chin and propping it on his knuckle. “You know as well as I that I’ve felt every inch of your face, doctor. I have a good idea by now of how you look…and how you taste.”
The tip of his dark tongue flicked out from between his fangs, and Syringeon was not proud of the noise that came out of his own mouth in response. He covered it a little too late with a cough. “Awful lot of…preamble for you,” he muttered. “Why not just take what you want and be done with it?”
“It isn’t about what I want, doctor… It’s about what you need.” Dadadoo leaned back a little, and Syringeon was glad he couldn’t see just how much the surgeon’s gaze was presently drawn to his open shirt. “If you think you don’t need me -“
“Criminy, you’re such a bleeding-heart,” Syringeon snapped. “I let you get this far, didn’t I?”
Dadadoo was quiet a moment, perhaps surprised by Syringeon’s covert yet clear admission, before his smirk returned. “You certainly did.”
Their lips met in a clumsy, yet forceful way; givanium constructs weren’t exactly intimately compatible with each other, to any degree. Dadadoo’s full lips pressed ineffectually upon Syringeon’s nigh-nonexistent ones, and their tongues fumbled for purchase against each other. Despite the difficulty inherent in their anatomy, however, it didn’t take long for Syringeon to lean deeper into the kiss, mouth gaping and gasping as if he’d been starving himself; and, at the risk of admitting Dadadoo was right, perhaps he had.
Dadadoo, credit where it was due, was perhaps as good at this sort of thing as their kind could possibly be, and a less scientific part of Syringeon idly wondered if it was his leech genome at work. Certainly, he wasn’t literally drawing the givanium from the doctor’s body, but it still felt as if some part of him was being swiftly, ravenously fed upon. Every breath he drew was stolen, every semi-coherent thought reduced to a loose featherlight mess. Eventually Dadadoo rested a hand on Syringeon’s waist, squeezing gently as he kept the surgeon close…even though Syringeon could scarcely be bothered to even feign pulling away at this point.
He wasn’t letting Dadadoo escape, either. Half-consciously he’d hooked his claw around the leech’s loose (but still knotted) necktie, enjoying Dadadoo’s breathless hums a little too much when he deigned to tug it forward. The longer they went on intertwining their uncanny, mercurial mouths, the more every fleeting break felt like a desperate gasp for air, and the harder it was to pull away. Givanium entrapment required very specific conditions to manifest, but with enough friction and extended proximity, the attraction between givanium particles was notable nonetheless. It wasn’t like they’d get stuck in these conditions, but it was hard not to be scientifically curious about just what the circumstances would need to be for such a predicament…
When Syringeon finally found it in himself to pull away, it was only because he and Dadadoo had relaxed so deeply against the operating table that they were currently in danger of falling over. Their kiss broke with little fanfare, and Syringeon hastily stumbled a couple steps backward before the less pragmatic part of himself could give into the temptation to start the whole thing over again.
“Lymph nodes…average,” he managed to mutter after a few moments of mindless silence. The room felt about ten degrees hotter than it had a few minutes ago, and he resisted the urge to shrug off his lab coat.
“Given the proximity with which you examined them, I am inclined to believe you,” Dadadoo said with amusement, his tongue running idly across his top lip.
Syringeon forced himself to turn around, pretending to be very invested in his tool rack. “Well, you’re in perfect condition, then…as usual. Can I get back to work now?”
“Of course, doctor. I value your time as much as you do mine.” He heard the leech drop down off the operating table. “As well as whether or not that time is well spent.”
Syringeon cast a forced squint over his shoulder. “If you’re expecting a straight answer, you’re not gonna get one.”
Dadadoo grinned, cinching his tie back under his collar. “I expect nothing but stubbornness from you.”
“Tch. Likewise.” Syringeon ran his implements under the utility sink faucet. “I suppose you’ll be back here later if I keep on…’isolating myself?’”
“How easy that would be for you,” hummed Dadadoo. “Should you once more require a patient of my particular specifications, I’m afraid you’ll have to come find me yourself.”
Oh, what a piece of work. “I hope you don’t think that’s going to work in your favor.”
“I don’t expect it will.” Dadadoo finally made to exit, though of course he took care to pass as close behind Syringeon as possible as he did so. “Unless, of course…you can’t help but prove me wrong.”